


The Alternia Files

by ingenuousPerjurer



Series: The Alternia Files [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Emotional Manipulation, Eridan Is An Arrogant Shithead, Gen, Mid-life Crisis, Murder, Poor Life Choices, Rebellion, War, bad times, drones, etc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8750203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenuousPerjurer/pseuds/ingenuousPerjurer
Summary: "The Empire is Great!" Every literate troll knows the pamphlet. The recorded one. It's got it printed on it, screeched out of it by a tinny, static recording of the Empress trying to sing, scrawled on the back in what you can only assume is her handwriting above her signature."The Empire is Great!"Now that's bullshit.   This is a series of sneak-peeks and an introduction to a series chronicling a certain twelve aliens and their oftentimes tragic adulthoods.





	1. You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

When a troll is young, they can dream of being anything they want. Some will flicker through fantasies of different jobs. The more history-enthused highbloods might trace their ancestry to revel in footsteps they could follow. A select few will even set up timelines, aspirations, start to put together their futures before they're even old enough to comprehend what some careers even really are. Those few may even overlap with the previous group, finding the trail to their ancestor's career and mapping it out so perfectly they could calculate their exact night of conception, if they really wanted to.

 

No matter what tactic they choose, they'll end up surprised when their assignment finally comes. 

 

The flicker-fantasy ones will take it best, their indecisive youth meaning they never really set their sights on something and making them much more adaptable. The history-lovers will probably get what they want, although if they don't they'll end up sorely disappointed. The planners get fucked over nearly every time, and usually end up dead because of it.

 

The overlappers are at the bottom. Sometimes, the odd one climbs their way right the fuck back up and gets it, gets the ancestral job they prepared for with all their heart. 

 

They usually don't.

 

On a related note, when Alternia has an heiress, there's no need for an Orphaner. The Heiress is expected to keep up with these duties, and perhaps in her wriggling sweeps have an assistant, but until she leaves to claim the throne or die trying, the position remains unfilled. Stationary. A stand-by, a contingency plan for the between-sweeps -- and fuck, will there be between-sweeps. Millenia. Eon. If the Heiress-turned-Empress or remaining Empress had a functioning thought, she might continue to care for her lusus, or at least visit to do so. Don't forget who you stepped on to succeed, and all that. But the Empress before this Empress was too busy advancing the science of her people while keeping them firmly in check (without the aide of a hemospectrum, might that be added, but shh, don't tell the public), and this Empress is conquering worlds and starting shit, aware of the Heiress but not enough so to care. And so they lose the Big G's love to their respective heiress, mostly due to the fact that a seabeast older than most methods of time-keeping doesn't give a single fuck how busy its spawn's schedule is. This lack of empathy, combined with their own hubris, proved to be the first's downfall, and maybe the second's if our darling Heiress can play her cards right and doesn't follow in the footsteps of twenty-four heiresses before her who are now faded little plaques on the Palace walls. 

 

Now, forget all that political bullshit and imagine that you are a six-sweep-old seadweller of unusual character and terrifying strength, uncomfortably quadranted and, subsequently, unquadranted with the Heiress herself, and your ancestor was the Orphaner, and you love a good plan. You _love_ a good timeline like you _love_ a good book or the feel of a rifle in your hands. You also do not do well with sudden changes in plans or things not going your way. You have yet to discover a lot of things, like the Rule of Orphaner (especially the Rule of Orphaner), how to best handle rejection, and what it feels like to be self-aware. Your learning process, I'm afraid, will take far longer than you have time for. Although -- really, it's only two sweeps from this point that you start in on all those _important_ lessons, isn't it?

You couldn't possibly know that, but it is. It surely is.

You are ERIDAN AMPORA, and you are going to live a very unhappy life, AREN'T YOU?


	2. Whistle While You Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Noose mention

The commissioner's office is an awesome place.

Not the kind of awesome where you're like 'oh shit dude, that gun is awesome.' It's awesome in the sense that sincere awe is struck into the body of whoever dares enter it, with the various trophies from various planets on the wall and a harpoon, the Commander's chosen weapon, hanging on the mantle above her seat. The floor is a smooth, uninterrupted Alternian marble, a traditionally carved chair marked with seadweller clan sigils and embedded with coral sitting behind the polished sandstone and mahogany desktop. It has neat smokestacks of papers on the sides, a sleek, new-model husktop in the center. The wall behind her desk is lined with posters, some of landscapes; some of Alternian-dominated planets; some motivational. One reads 'IF YOU RUN OUT OF BULLETS, YOU RUN OUT OF LIVES' over a video game heart, next to 'HANG IN THERE' with a photo of a noose.

"That one's a joke," she says, voice flippant behind you. You jump, admittedly, turning too fast to get an eye on her and finding yourself with one arm stuck out at an odd angle to keep your balance. It earns you a chuckle, and thankfully nothing more."You must be Eridan."

"I'm not usually this clumsy." You blurt before you think, righting yourself with a hard swallow and offering your bejeweled hand to her. "Eridan Ampora."

The commissioner smiles, a little too coolly to be amused, and sidles past you to her chair in the exact picture of grace. You take a moment to drink her in, to view the woman who will assign you the career that paves the way for the rest of your life. Chances are she already knows, just wants you here to finalize, to make the finishing touches.

She's tall, big as a monster, like a kraken or the giant eels that lurk in the depths where you wouldn't go. One of the oldest living members of the Empire, she is. The Grand Highblood has her beat by only a decade and a bit. She wears a simple uniform, though, a violet one-piece suit that cinches as the waist and Imperial boots. Her long hair, wavy like yours, is swept up into a neat bun and clasped with a pearl piece. You're as formidable as she is, you think, when you're not nervous. You're a member of the Ampora clan; you're to be the most formidable there is, after the Empress. You have to be. There's a legacy resting on your shoulders. "Take a seat, then. No need to be nervous; I'm sure you're well prepared for tonight, huh?"

You are. You have spent your entire life preparing for tonight. Every second, every minute of every sweep was spent preparing for this moment. But suddenly, sliding into the proffered mahogany chair that squeaks under the still-growing weight of you, you feel as if it was not nearly enough. "I'd like to think I am."

She chuckles again. A lot of chuckling, going on here. You don't like it. Feel suspiciously like being laughed at. "Right, then. You know the drill. I'm going to review your files, ask a couple questions, and then go over a few options. Tonight you'll sleep in the provided space -- you found your block okay?" You nod, too fast, too eager. No one mentionedyou you were getting a block. "And tomorrow you'll most likely head to the docks."

Most likely? Most likely. Fuck. There is a chance, a slim, tiny chance you'll walk out of here with no career and no future and no plans. Your legacy will be dead. You'll be put to work in some factory  in some shithole and die there, and that'll be that. "Sounds good."

"Alright, let's see. Interests include.." She clicks around her husktop, giving a little hum. "History, science -- the environment? And FLARPing. You also have firearms, sharpshooting, and gunmaking listed as hobbies and skills. Correct?"

"Correct," you confirm, nodding sharply. You hold your back straight, chin high; your hands are folded neatly across your lap. You are strong. You are bold. You're going to be fine. 

"Mm. Good." She clicks again, eyebrows raising. "You have incredible FLARPing scores, Mr. Ampora. These will do you good. You won often?"

"Nearly everytime."

"One in fifteen chance of loss. Excellent. Absolutely excellent." Your vascular system soars. Of course they're excellent. Of course you're excellent. "And the Orphaner's Crosshairs are in your possession still?"

"Always have been."

"And you're the Orphaner's boy?"

"Always have been." She chuckles, but it's not so cold. Now she's laughing with you; you're on her level, worthy of her time. 

"Excellent. Absolutely excellent. Let's see -- Northern island -- Northern clan boy? Just like your sire. Very good. Excellent. Your pretraining scores from the last sweep are excellent, your portfolio is excellent.. Your lineage. Really. The Orphaner's boy." Her smile is more menacing than friendly, every row of teeth on display. "Never thought I'd see it in person. Very good." 

You hesitate a beat too long, nodding again as soon as you catch her smile beginning to slip. "Thank you."

"Mmm. Let's see. What can I even ask you?" That's a tactic trick. It's familiar, catches your fins -- you've seen it, in all the internet guides there are. You absolutely should not suggest anything. Show patience. Show that you know your place and trust in her ability. Still, it sticks in your chest the list of things she could ask, about your tactical skill, about your sharpshooting, about how you grew up and where you grew up and why you stayed. "Why the rifle? Why the harpoon? You can't be an Orphaner, clearly, so why stick with it?"

That hurts. It hurts sharp, and not just because you didn't see it coming. You can't be an Orphaner. It's over. That dream, that path, is over. You didn't even list your meager time as it on the application, lest you be laughed out of the block for lying, or executed for slandering the Heiress. "The legacy. I have shoes to fill, a clan to uphold. I couldn't just let it rot away at the bottom a'the ocean 'cause I couldn't do it for a livin'."

"And you knew? You couldn't do it?"

"Yes." It's bitter on your tongue, lying to someone so far above you.

"Excellent. I'm glad you stuck with that rifle. Knowing your sire, having that piece of him -- It'll take you far. Might even get you out of this mess."

"What mess?" What _fucking_ mess?

She smiles, gentler, turning to face you head-on. "Let's be honest with each other, Eridan. You know what you can do for the Empire. I know what you can do for the Empire," this is not a tactic you have studied, this was not in the handbook, where is she going with this, "and I want to know why on Alternia you're even bothering to pretend you don't know what I'm going to assign you. What I have to assign you." 

"I don't know, commissioner."

"A warship, Eridan. You know you're going to a warship. A troll who can act as a tactitian, who an shoot -- smarts disregarded. You're versatile. Hell, they need a substitute chemist on the engines, they can put you in. It would be irresponsible of me to put you anywhere else. Which is tragic, really, because you are the Orphaner's boy," and she tsks, under her tongue, "but you have his temper, too. I'm going to assign you to a warship."

You give her silence. Your breathing picks up, rapid, fins unsure of which direction to go, the blood pumping through your horns and your scalp hot with indignation. With _fear_. "A warship."

"I'm sorry." She almost sounds like she means it, shaking her head, large fins still snapped to attention. She's not sorry. "If you weren't so angry.. You know, you really are just like him."

"You knew.. Him?" It clicks, suddenly, the way she's eyeing you, the menace. "You knew the Orphaner?"

Her chuckle is dry this time. "I nearly had his job. Look, Eridan, this really isn't about him. It's about you now. I'm printing out your results,  okay? Dock 34 tomorrow. There's a brand new opening--

"You knew him," you say, interrupting her without a single fuck. "You're doin' this because -- because you wanted his job? And he -- fuckin' what, didn't let you? Didn't choose you? And now you're some bitter old office lady who's gonna fuck his descendant over just because you damn well can?"

The commissioner turns her gaze on you, merciless. "Watch your _mouth_ , Mr. Ampora."

"I will _not_. How fuckin' dare you, try and pull one over on an Ampora boy like I'm some peasant you can push around because you didn't get your way."

She stands, suddenly, the carved chair screeching behind her and she circles around her desk. You think, for a second, she's going to lay hands on you, but she stalks towards the door and throws it wide. "Your appointment is over. Pick up your papers at the front office."

You want to protest. You want to unleash your full strength, your passion, but she's bigger and scarier and fuck, you'll just write a report because you refuse -- refuse -- to become the aggressor this time. You'll give her nothing to hold against you. She is wrong. This is wrong, and you'll make it right if you have to sacrifice your dignity here, now.

You move past her with a sneer, stalking out and snatching the stack of papers from the front before the little oliveblood can even open his mouth. The brochure on top swings open as you walk, tiny speakers screeching out-of-tune music that bursts into static every step you take.

 _"The Empire is_ grea _-_ ea _-eat!"_

You are eight sweeps old, and you're beginning to suspect that's bullshit.

 

 

 


	3. The Rule of Orphaner

The thing about ancestors is that they're _complicated_. Legally. It's not as cut and paste as 'ah, this troll looks like me, please, please give me their benefits' -- factor in location, mating prospects, age of ancestor, distance between hatch sweep and death sweep, number of Mothergrub cycles and the average it takes to produce a genetic descendant (the absolute maximum accepted on any paperwork is twelve), the lack of accuracy in the older historical records meaning there's not a whole lot to back up your claim -- and you've got a lot to contend with. Not to mention if you have a particulary remarkable ancestor, you might be fighting against some significantly less valid claims on them. There are exactly three things that can make this process easier:

  * You are the sole member of your blood caste;
  * You are or have access to a jadeblood trusted enough to have direct access to the Mothergrub's slurry donation history and can find when someone with your last name (but not your first -- more than one mistake has been made that way) got laid;



 or

  * you're stinkin' rich. 



There are some trolls who can check off all three, such as Feferi Peixes, who also has the added perk of her ancestor constantly making attempts on her life. She will also never actually have to register herself as an official descendant, seeing as she has a giant kraken lusus as solid evidence should anyone, official or not, express doubt. Ampora had one and a half for a while there, and an incredible tenacity when it came to historical research -- even if all that paperwork he filed to be considered an official Orphaner descendant came back to bite him. 

Then there are trolls like the Commissioner, older than any pail record, the kind of troll who can remember a time before there were only a fistful of adults left on Alternia, the kind of troll who still has newsclippings from the deaths in the Highblood's court, the ones waiting for their descendants to find them.The kind who you often find holding on to grudges they can only act on in rare bursts. The angry kind.

See, that's the thing about highbloods. They just don't _forget_ things.

Conviently, that brings us to the Rule of Orphaner, as Eridan's internal monolog has dubbed it -- likely not too long after he was last seen, either, poor boy.

The RO dictates that there are two ways being Dualscar's registered descendant can affect you;

1\. You become the recepient of underserved glory 

or

2\. Undeserved hatred. 

 

There are no alternatives.  

 

And so, using this as a rough guideline, we can determine similar rules for other descendants. Feferi's rule, for example, would be along the lines of 'you will spend all your living days until your final confrontation narrowly dodging underhanded assassination attempts until she slaughters you.' Karkat's would be 'everyone up into the bronze caste views you as a savior, but everyone else wants you dead,' and Vriska's is 'for every ship you loot, you add oodles on to a bounty decades older than you, further prompting an entire planet and then some into wanting your head in their sylladex.'

Makes Eridan's life seem real simple, doesn't it? It's almost like not everything is about him. Very few things are, even, in the grand scheme of things. Zoom out a little, and you lose focus of him entirely -- at least in this point, where he's still an angry little eight sweep clinging to the shattered remnants of his dreams.

But that camera metaphor. Zoom out, and there's no Eridan in sight. Eight sweeps is a pretty big deal for Vriska (guess why), and even she's not in the big picture yet. Feferi, though. Feferi and her rule. Feferi's always there, even if it's just hovering in the background a little bit. It comes with being a heiress. You're always being watched.

Your name is FEFERI PEIXES, and you've got A LOT ON YOUR PLATE,  don't you?

 


End file.
